


The Storm

by altoinkblots



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Desert, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, there's a cute lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altoinkblots/pseuds/altoinkblots
Summary: The more time he spent there, lying down in the tent with water and blankets and the soothing salve and the woman--the kind, soft,goodwoman--the less he actually wanted to leave. He could recognize her voice from a distance away, recognized her footsteps and the way she moved the tent flap aside. He had tried speaking to her, but his throat was still too dry. “Save it,” she said with a smile the last time he had tried to say something to her, her eyes clearer and brighter than the water she gave him.Eventually he got up the courage to wave at her. She always waved back.The storm catches up with everyone in the end. Maybe this time, things would be different.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a writing exercise that... well... It was fun to write, at the very least.  
> I listened to "One Foot" by Walk the Moon while writing most of this, but I'm hesitant to tag it as a songfic because, again, this got away from me almost from the first few paragraphs. I also experimented with style a little bit, so this one is definitely different.  
> Enjoy!!

Once upon a time--

But that’s not right. There was no time in the desert, only sand and sky and sun and wind and blood and--

There was a storm. He didn’t remember when the storm had happened, only that it had happened and now he was in a desert with nothing in front of him and nothing behind him and only the clothes on his back and a silver chain in his pocket. All he knew was to keep going, keep stepping into the shifting sands with the sun beating down and the stillness of the desert. 

Nothing. There was nothing. Nothing for days, weeks… He barely remembered his own name, let alone the last time he had had peace. At night, when he would fall to the ground out of exhaustion he would look up at the sky and see nothing. His eyes were too dry, that was it. He could barely see the shifting sands in front of him during the day in full sunlight, let alone the night sky.

He blinked sand out of his eyes. No moisture came. He kept walking, putting one foot down in front of the other. Step, step, step. Sometimes, to cool his skin down, he would touch the silver chain kept in a secret pocket. It worked, if only for a moment. Then he would keep going, trudging through the endless desert.

At night, he unwrapped his feet and nearly threw up at the sight. They were caked in blood and sand and puss and gore and he wondered how he kept walking through the desert… Away from the storm…

In the morning he wrapped his feet and kept going. 

His vision became blurry. Multicolored spots danced in his eyes, taunting him. He could hear their laughing ringing in his ears. He smacked his lips together. They were bleeding, dried out and cracking. 

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. 

He shivered at night, huddling into himself for warmth and he wished for the sun. During the day, he tripped over his feet and wished for night. Mostly he wished for relief. 

His foot caught on a rock, slicing it open from the toes to the heel. He cried out, his blood dying the golden sand red. Red robes, red paint, red stone…

He shut his eyes against the sun and his own blood.

* * *

He was warm, but not uncomfortably so. The sun wasn’t in his eyes, there was… a shield, something covering him from the sun. The ground was hard underneath him and there was a smell, a faint memory, like a dream of a dream from his childhood…

Someone parted his lips and poured something cool and relieving into his mouth. Slowly, carefully. A hand was placed on his forehead, then over his eyes. “Rest,” said a soft voice.

And he did.

* * *

Slowly, he came to realize where he was. Not the exact location, and the dry heat of the desert was still stifling, but he was in a tent. With water and bandages and a woman who didn’t know who he was. That was the important thing. As soon as he was well he would leave and keep going… and going… and going… 

Maybe he would rest here for a little longer.

* * *

The bottom of his blanket, where his bandaged feet rested, lifted up. Slowly, the agile hands of the woman unwrapped his feet. They still stung, but every time she came to change the bandages she put a soothing salve on them that made him sigh with relief. She would talk, too, about random nothings. He was still too out of it to understand what she was saying, but he understood human speech when he heard it. 

She put the salve on his right foot first, slowly rubbing it in with her fingers. He had ticklish feet when he was little, but the desert had worn that away quickly enough. Her fingers were kind, and it never hurt. She wrapped the right foot up in fresh bandages and moved to the left foot. He cried out when she rubbed the salve over his sores. She tried again and he winced. 

His left foot took longer for her to do, but before long it was wrapped up again. He blinked and saw her silhouette against the tent flap, completely backlit by the sun. She closed the flap behind her, leaving him all alone.

* * *

The storm would catch up to him, he just knew it. The more time he spent in this place the more danger he put the woman in, but he was still weak and thirsty, and every time she touched his left foot _fire_ would shoot up his leg and up his spine and to his arms and fingers and head and brain and other foot and--

He couldn’t leave. 

But the more time he spent there, lying down in the tent with water and blankets and the soothing salve and the woman--the kind, soft, _good_ woman--the less he actually wanted to leave. He could recognize her voice from a distance away, recognized her footsteps and the way she moved the tent flap aside. He had tried speaking to her, but his throat was still too dry. “Save it,” she said with a smile the last time he had tried to say something to her, her eyes clearer and brighter than the water she gave him. 

Eventually he got up the courage to wave at her. She always waved back.

One day, when he was sitting up propped against a pole with her kneeling at his feet, frowning, her arms crossed, he asked for her name. 

She looked up at him. “Winry.” Her arms were still folded, but her shoulders had relaxed some. “What’s yours?”

“Edward,” he said, remembering. “My name is Edward.”

* * *

A few days later, Winry knelt down next to him. “Your foot is infected.”

Edward blinked, waking up from a nap. “What?”

She reached for the bowl of water that Edward was so familiar with and gave it to him. Sometime in the past few days she had started trusting him to drink by himself. “Your right foot is fine, but there’s nothing that I can do for the left foot. It has to go.”

Edward took the bowl and sipped from it, just like she had taught him. “What does that mean for me?”

Winry leaned back on one hand and blew air out of her cheeks. “I’ll have to go and get an actual doctor, who is four days away. Round trip.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll be by yourself for four days.”

“Okay.”

“The infection could spread.”

Edward put the bowl of water down next to him. “Is that what you think is best?”

Winry looked down, then nodded. “If I don’t do something now, then the infection will spread more than it has and kill you.”

Edward nodded. “Then go.”

“There’s no one else here to take care of you. You’ll be on your own. You can try to change the bandages, but--”

Edward put a finger on her lip. She blinked, her eyes wide. “Go,” he insisted. “I can take care of myself.”

Winry rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could die.”

“Besides that.”

Winry’s eyes searched his face. Five minutes passed, then ten, then Edward lost track. The wind ruffled the tent flap. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m going to leave extra bandages and salve and water and food and firewood and blankets. You know how to wrap your feet, yes?”

“I’ve seen you do it enough times.”

“That’s not the same.”

Edward took the blanket off of his legs. “Show me.”

Winry nodded. She guided him, first with her words then with her hands, as he unwrapped both of his legs, letting the healing sores on his feet breathe for a bit. She let him rub the salve into the soles of his feet, her hands reaching out every time he winced. But she let him do it, and then she carefully showed him how to wrap his legs back up again. Her touch lingered on his ankle. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” she said. “Four days.”

“Four days,” said Edward. 

Winry stood up and walked over to the tent flap, hesitating. She then shook her head and ducked to walk through the low opening.

* * *

Edward woke up to a warm press of lips against his forehead, long before the sun rose. At first he thought it was a dream, but he heard Winry’s familiar footsteps as she left and recognized her whisper as she said something too soft for him to hear. He dozed in and out of sleep until the sun streamed through the little pinpricks between the fibers of the tent fabric.

The first day passed without incident. The tent was fairly small, with enough room for everything Winry left for him. He ate the food she left out, drank the water, changed his bandages. Something was missing, like the world had shifted slightly to the left without him. 

He scooted to the tent flap, being careful of his still-sore feet. He peeked outside, for the first time since waking up in the tent so long ago. The desert still surrounded them, but there was one other tent set up, a small handful of sheep drinking from a pool of crystalline water. The campsite was mostly empty.

That night he slept with his head poking out of the tent and up at the stars. There was no moon, and only a few stars twinkled in the darkness. Edward realized that, ever since the desert, this was his first time being completely alone. Still, Winry would be back.

The second day was much of the same. He ate the food, drank the water, changed his bandages, sat at the edge of the tent just in the shadows and watched the four sheep graze at the little bit of grass at the oasis. A lamb was curled up, asleep, in the shade of a palm tree. Edward knew better than to walk over there. It was a miracle he had made it so far on his marred feet. 

One of the sheep came over to him, curious. An ewe, she soon sat down next to him and fell asleep in the shade. As the sun sunk lower in the sky the rest of the sheep wandered over to him. He spent the afternoon running his hands through their growing wool, smiling.

However, something shifted in the night. Edward recognized it, his entire body freezing up. _The storm. It’s here._ The sheep were still outside, and he had no idea if they would be okay. Grunting, he got to his knees and rocked to his feet. He winced as soon as he put weight on them, but he could smell a storm coming. He hobbled over to the tent flap and to the sheep. “Come on,” he said, looking out. He didn’t know where the storm would be coming from. “There’s a storm coming.”

None of the sheep moved. Edward shook one awake. It belated at him, waking up the other sheep.

“That’s it,” Edward said. “Come on, a storm’s coming.”

Still, nothing happened. 

Wind whipped around Edward, making him stagger on his weak legs. He gritted his teeth together. One by one, he picked up each sheep and carried them inside the tent. They protested, squirming in his arms, but he solidly set them down in the tent, nudging them back inside when they tried to escape. 

Too long later, it was just the little lamb. His feet had bled through the bandages and then some and the sheep were bleating and baaing, clearly protesting what was going on. The wind picked up, nearly taking Edward off of his feet as he stumbled back to the tent. The wind rung in his ears like an army shouting, screaming for battle. Small particles of sand pinched at him, and he looked off towards the horizon. Any horizon, it didn’t matter. 

A wall of sand hit the tent the moment he closed the flap behind him. The sheep all froze in place as sand and wind and the storm pummeled against the small little tent. Edward shut his eyes and held the lamb close to his chest. 

Thunder, lightning, shouting, a fight. A push, blood against stones, staining the already-red paint a deep crimson as he ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and--

The only thing he heard was a roar. He curled up on the floor, putting himself in the middle of all of the sheep, the lamb still in his arms. Shielding it with his body, one thing he couldn’t do then. He could do it now. 

Two smiles, both as bright as the sun and as soothing as cool water running down the throat. Both of them were gone, and Edward didn’t know if he would see either of them again.

Red, yellow, blue. Those colors kept flashing through his mind, faster and faster until they were a blur and he couldn’t tell the water from the blood from the sun. They were all the same, and in the blackness of the tent--what a flimsy sanctuary from the storm, the storm that would rip him from everything he loved and why he had run in the first place--he held onto what he knew was real. The lamb. His bleeding feet. The gentle kiss on his forehead, the last thing Winry had given to him. He ran through those things in his mind as the storm tore through the tent, tore through him, tore through the lamb.

* * *

Winry ran. She left her camel behind with the doctor, an old family friend, as soon as she had seen the little oasis torn completely to shreds. Edward’s words ran through her head.

_What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the worst that could happen what’s the worst that could happenwhat’stheworstthatcouldhappenwhat’stheworstthatcouldhappenwhat’s the worst--_

_You could die._

She didn’t care about the sheep. She did, but Edward was more important. She had left him, alone, for four days and when she returned the palm trees had fallen over and the tent was torn to a thousand little pieces and she couldn’t see Edward anywhere and it was all her fault for leaving. 

The doctor was right on her trail. She dug through the remains of the tent where she had left Edward, begging, pleading with every god she could think of. The doctor joined her, almost as urgent as she was. Almost.

“No no no no no no no,” she said, too angry with herself to cry. She could have brought Edward with her, let him ride the camel as she walked--

But he would never let her do that.

She yelled and threw a piece of wood into the little pond. It plopped into the water, and Winry sat back, hot tears pricking against her eyes. Still, the doctor kept digging. 

Winry wiped at her eyes and continued digging. She moved pieces of fabric that were weighed down with sand out of the way, finding the broken remains of her items.

“I found something!” the doctor called out.

Winry leapt to her feet and helped the doctor shift a large piece of wood out of the way, just enough for the little lamb to poke its head out. It blinked, then squirmed out of the pile of wood and canvas before trotting over to the pond, completely unscathed. 

The doctor and Winry met eyes, then continued digging with renewed vigor. “There!” Winry cried as soon as she saw a hand. She held onto it as both her and the doctor moved the wood, canvas, and sand out of the way. Soon, her and the doctor lifted Edward out of the destroyed tent. Winry held onto him, his breath warm against her ear. 

“Go, take care of him” said the doctor. “I’ll see if the rest of your sheep are still alive.”

Winry nodded. She easily lifted Edward into her arms and gently lay him down next to the lamb. The little lamb nuzzled close to him, and he stirred. Winry put her hand over his eyes. “Rest,” she said, her voice wet with relief.

Edward fell back to sleep.

* * *

His recovery wasn’t easy. Winry and the doctor successfully amputated his leg, and she took care of him all the way through his recovery, both from the amputation and his wounds from the storm. Winry barely left his side, and the little lamb preferred to fall asleep in the crook of his elbow more nights than most. The silver chain he had carried with him for weeks had been lost in the storm, but that was nothing compared to his life. He had that, he had Winry, and that was all that mattered.

When he was strong enough to sit up, he immediately asked for something to do. “I’ve wasted away here for weeks with nothing to do,” he said. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You could never be a burden,” said Winry.

“Please,” he said.

So Winry gave him a large piece of wood. Day by day he carved and chipped away at it. Slowly, it turned into a crutch. It was crudely made, but it was sturdy enough to hold his weight.

When he was well enough to travel, they moved on. Closer to a city with less sand for Edward’s crutch to slip in. As they moved across the desert, the little lamb followed Edward around like he was its mother. He doted on it, sometimes carrying it on the camel with him. 

One night, as they both sat next to their campfire, Winry leaned her head against Edward’s shoulder. “I’ve never asked,” she said. “What were you doing by yourself back then?”

Edward sighed and stared at the fire, his fingers picking at the blanket that they sat on. “I was running.”

“From what?”

Edward snorted. “What wasn’t I running from?” He looked over at her, at her eyes flickering in the firelight. “My home was destroyed. As far as I know, I’m the only one left.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

Edward rested his head against hers. “I had nothing, I couldn’t even remember my name. Then you saved me.”

Winry kissed his shoulder. “You were half-buried in the sand when I pulled you out.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.”

* * *

They decided to get married. They were all that the other had, minus the little lamb that wasn’t a lamb anymore, and the ceremony was small. Them, the sheep, and the closest person they could find that had a relationship to a religion. They were dirty and sweaty, covered in sand and they smelled like livestock, but they both smiled and held each other’s hands as they both said yes.

They spent their wedding night talking and holding each other close. The next day, Winry stopped Edward as he was packing up the tents. “Do you know what I realized?”

“What?”

“There hasn’t been a single storm since that first one.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Winry playfully smacked him on the arm. “I’m serious. No bad weather, no freak haboobs. Nothing.”

Edward stood up straight and looked out towards the horizon, his hands on his hips. He had gotten better at balancing on one foot over the time they had spent together. “You’re right,” he said. 

“About what?”

He turned his head to look back at her. “I’m not sure yet. But whatever it is, we can weather it together.”

“Good,” said Winry. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Edward smiled as he pulled Winry into a hug.

* * *

Edward had insisted on being in the room with her. He held her as she squeezed both of his hands, sweat dripping down her yellow hair, her face contorted in pain. 

“Don’t waste your energy on screaming,” said the midwife.

Edward kissed Winry’s forehead as she _pushed_. Edward closed his eyes against the red that was everywhere. He opened them when a cry split through the air. Winry sagged against his chest, her breathing heavy and deep. The midwife looked over at them, and then handed the small, wrinkled, screaming baby to Winry. She reached out and held the child against her chest, not caring about getting even more blood on her clothing. Edward put his hands on the child’s back. 

“It’s a boy,” said the midwife.

The baby stopped screaming to open his blue eyes, clear as a bowl of water.

* * *

Once upon a time…

That’s not right. There was never one specific time. Storms came and went, and with that so did life. The sun rose and set, the moon waxed and waned. The desert would never tame, and on the last day of his life Edward stepped onto the sand, looked up at the sun, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> If any of you are curious, I made a playlist for these two dorks that we all love (for funzies), that can be found [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/50WQA8VyjY4uin00ykaam6?si=79u3bcMaQQidG0EqivivIw) It's incredibly subjective, but what playlists aren't subjective? Thanks for reading, I'll see you in the kudos/comments sections, and happy reading!!


End file.
